Dust In The Wind
by The Illustrious Crackpot
Summary: Post Z.E.R.O., contains spoilers. ...The most tragic element of their romance was that they would never remember it.


_A/N: This is an idea that's been stuck in my head ever since I saw _Operation: Z.E.R.O._ for the second time...in the scene where Monty Uno/Numbuh Zero tells Sector Z that their recommissioning is only temporary, the camera focuses on the boy who had the football helmet as a Delightful as he puts his hand on the pigtail-girl's shoulders; she touches his hand, and they gaze at each other sadly. The fact that this small moment is highlighted seemed to me to be an implication that those two might have been romantically involved, and this thought kept spinning around in my head until I finally broke down and wrote this. So, yeah, totally pointless, but maybe someone out there will find it vaguely interesting._

_Keep in mind that this is my first time writing a piece without any real "actions" involved (a simple reflection without anything actually "happening", as it were), so I'd appreciate any feedback you can give. Thanks!_

**Dust In The Wind**

(The Illustrious Crackpot)

They would never remember.

They would never remember _any_ of it, actually; none of the missions from Global Command, none of the honors bequeathed upon their Sector _(the illustrious Sector Z, never to be matched in the history of Kid-dom, the greatest group of operatives the KND had ever known)_, none of the times when they could stop, breathe and just drink ice cream sodas together. Delightfulization had wiped their slates clean, erased every last memory; and though recommissioning could break those boundaries and dredge up the lost thoughts for a short time, the "Grandfather" incident had shown that such an action caused more pain than pleasure—it was just a drop in the well of a time they could never recapture.

They would never remember _any_ of it; and yet, for the girl whose bushy pigtails had become plaited and the boy whose armor, his soul of all souls, had been reduced to naught but a football helmet, there were some things that they wished with all their hearts _(would have wished, had they their old selves once again)_ had never been lost.

They would never remember their first meeting, as cataclysmic as nearly every encounter that had followed, as she brusquely shoved him out of the way of a teenager's speeding car.

They would never remember when all the new recruits were assigned Sectors, or the way both their faces had lit up when they'd realized that they'd be fighting together.

They would never remember the way she would cover his escape, the way he would drag her out of the danger zone, the way they would vow to continue fighting side by side until retreat was not an option but a necessity.

Hands brushing each other momentarily, too-harsh reprimands from her, too-quiet submissions from him, awkwardly pleasant silences, teammates joking about the spats that seemed more fit to married couples than to two children—lost forever.

"_Why can't you get it through your skull?" she screamed, face a brilliant crimson, whitened knuckles tightening around his collar as she jerked him (surprised and bewildered) down to her level. "__**I—LOVE—YOU!!**__"_

They would never remember the renewed zeal to fight, to protect each other; they would never remember the bursts of energy that somehow came when the other was in danger, the heightened awareness that the other was still alive, the need to keep one's self safe for the other's sake.

They would never remember those battles, or the quiet times in between; they would never remember the reassuring embraces, the quiet condolences, the feel of two heartbeats. They would never remember the small, faltering kisses kept secret in the dark.

They would never remember the way they fought to keep each other from becoming Delightfulized—or the way that their ferocity, in part, sent the machine into overload and ironically gave their transformations their permanence.

But, somewhere underneath the implanted obedience towards adults and malice towards children, there was an _instinct_. An instinct that made them feel safe just knowing that the other was always right there, just in front or just in back. An instinct that, during those rare split-seconds when their group actions slipped out of synch and the five could move independently, made him stroke her hair, or made her grasp his hand. In their conscious states, they had no idea why they felt or behaved that way; only that it felt _right_.

They would never remember their Sector, their triumphs, their meetings, their love. But they remembered each other.

And maybe that was enough.


End file.
